A Catalog of Birds

  “We can do it, Daddy.”

  They were doing fine until the weather changed. Gray clouds massed north of the lake and the wind picked up, strong enough to create chop. Billy hugged the shore to stay out of the wind, but it was hard work and Bascomb’s estimate of two hours had just gone out the window.

  The canoe leaked, of course. Nell used Billy’s baseball hat to bail. She worked like a little engine, not saying much. She didn’t complain, Nell almost never complained. She’d learned that little piece of Flynn code early, and she would never admit she was scared.

  Billy was getting tired. It was a heavy old broad-bottomed canoe. Probably safe as houses, but a lot of boat for fourteen-year-old arms.

  “Hey, Nell, quit bailing for awhile and paddle, will ya?”

  “What about all the water?”

  “We’ll put you on a paddle for five minutes and then bailing for five minutes. We’ll make better progress.”

  She took the paddle and leaned into her strokes, like he’d taught her.

  “That’s good,” he said. “You’re doing a good job.”

  She was getting a taste of just how heavy the boat was.

  “You cold?” he asked.

  “Not too bad.”

  “Paddling will warm you up.”

  She nodded.

  “We’ve passed Bishop’s Landing; we’re about halfway there. We’ll be able to see the lights from town to guide us in when it gets dark,” he continued. “What time is it?”

  “Six fifteen.”

  “It’s the clouds making it so dark.”

  “Should I bail again?”

  “Another few minutes. You’re really helping.”

  More clouds boiled up from the west, fluffy and white, lit by the lowering sun. They were alone on the lake as far as they could see.

  “Did you hear that?” Billy asked.

  “Screech owl?” Nell ventured.

  “Good guess.”

  “They kind of whinny like a horse.”

  “Yes, they do.”

  “Was that a bobolink?” she asked.

  “Bobolink, catbird, Baltimore oriole.”

  “I’ll never be as good as you.”

  “It’s just practice,” he said. “Got any new jokes?”

  “Nope.”

  “We could sing.”

  And they did. All the campfire songs, the songs they sang in the car on the way to visit Uncle Joe and Aunt Betty Lou in Old Forge, the ones with endless verses coming around mountains and stacking beer on walls. Nell came up with one of the Irish airs their father loved: Isle of Innisfree. Between the two of them they remembered verse after verse.

  Nell alternated bailing and paddling until her head started to droop she was so tired.

  “Close your eyes for five minutes,” Billy told her. “A quick rest and you’ll get some strength back.”

  “I don’t want to leave it all to you.”

  “I’ll be fine.”

  “Billy . . . ”

  “Just close your eyes.”

  “Wake me if I fall asleep.”

  “I will.”

  She lay across the seat resting her head on the gunwale. She was asleep in seconds.

  Nell woke with a start when the wind dropped and the storm clouds moved off to the east. The sunset was magnificent: bands of gray lifting as the sun descended in a show of red and pink and near purple. She bailed with a vengeance as if to make up for lost minutes and then picked up her paddle again.

  Billy pointed out a male wood duck in breeding flight, the unearthly blue at the tip of its wings. They could hear the female, but couldn’t see her, her high-pitched, rising call lingering in the air. Further on they passed a pair of northern shovelers migrating north; some would fly as far as Alaska.

  “Is that our dock?” Nell asked.

  “Where?”

  Nell pointed. “Halloooo,” she called, her voice fluting in the dark.

  It felt like they were skimming over the water, not much feeling left in their hands, their arms exhausted. The lake took on a silvery cast and suddenly seemed a foreign place they’d never visited before.

  They paddled up to the dock giddy with their success. Jack, on his knees, helped them from the boat and pulled both of them into his arms with a fierceness they were unaccustomed to.

  “Good boy,” he said to Billy. And, “You’re a trouper, Nell, a real trouper.”

  Now, as she walks up the hill, Nell wants that circle back: her father’s arms around both of them, united with Billy in their adventure, a homecoming that pulls them together instead of tearing them apart.

  When she enters the kitchen, Billy is at the stove making a mess with milk and cocoa. His beer has been dumped out in the sink.

  He fills two cups, spilling half of it. Hands her one.

  “Thanks.” She takes a sip. “You forgot the sugar!” She dumps in sugar, stirs. “That’s a little better. Not as good as the stuff you made when we were kids, though.”

  They walk outside, sit on the porch steps; hear phoebes, waxwings, and the rumble of Asa’s ailing tractor drifting down from the fields. The wind comes up, flattening the grass, smelling of the lake and freshly turned earth. Flanagan snuffles after a chipmunk. Rabbit, maybe. She senses their attention, circles back to Billy; then goes back to work.

  “Listen, Nell . . . ”

  She isn’t sure he’ll continue.

  “The drinking. I need to try . . . ”

  She waits.

  “It gets a hold of you. Like it’s some kind of answer. Even though you know it isn’t.”

  “I wish you could talk to me,” she says.

  He stares at his hands, sees Megan suddenly, a hand on her throat, terror in her eyes. Shakes it off, whatever it is: vision, nightmare. He looks at Nell, puts an arm around her.

  “Cornell, huh?”

  “I can’t quite believe it.”

  “When were you gonna tell me?”

  “The day the letter arrived . . . I saw you burning your drawings and paintings. I couldn’t . . . It just feels like it’s not fair, like I’m taking your place.”

  “It’s great news, Nell.”

  “I want you to come with me. We could get an apartment together. You could start with a course or two. Work for Esme.”

  “You don’t want me tagging along after you.”

  “I do.”

  “I don’t even think Cornell is what I want anymore.”

  “Billy, your whole life; the ornithology lab, the . . . ”

  “If I can get this hand and arm to function, if I can be patient and put in my time with work and therapy, maybe even find another surgeon, then I want to get my commercial pilot’s license.”

  Flanagan barks, having treed something. Raccoon, probably.

  “If that doesn’t work out,” he continues, “I’ll think about college. Make Mom happy.”

  “That’s what you really want.”

  “It’s what I’ve always wanted.”

  Billy slips into the confessional at 5:30. Father O’Rourke groans. Billy tries to stifle a laugh.

  “Billy Flynn,” O’Rourke says.

  “Yes, sir.”

  “You always had a wicked sense of humor.”

  “A little cockeyed.”

  “And you like to keep me from my Saturday libation.”

  “It takes me all week to get here, Father.”

  “I understand the difficulty.”

  A pause. The priest sighs.

  “Bless me, Father, for I have sinned.”

  They hear one of the church ladies flipping up the kneelers as she dusts. Humming.

  “What burden are you carrying? This is the place to put it down.”

  “I want to come to church, Father.”
>
  “Nothing stopping you.”

  “And take communion.”

  “The sacraments have the power to heal.”

  The woman. Still humming.

  “It has been two years since my last confession.”

  “The Marriage of Figaro.”

  “What?”

  “She’s humming the Count’s plea to the Countess. Note for note. That’s amazing. Contessa, perdono. And her answer: I am more mild than you . . . Am I interrupting you now, son?”

  “No, sir.”

  “If there’s beauty in the world, if there’s forgiveness, that’s what it sounds like. The end of the opera is a hymn of peace. I wish you could hear it.”

  “I’ve never . . . ”

  “All the operas, Billy, all the Seneca and Iroquois legends you love so much are about sin and forgiveness and redemption.”

  “And raising the dead.”

  “Ah.”

  “Raising the dead, Father.”

  “Let’s talk about the dead.”

  “I can’t.”

  “Tell me what happened.”

  “I can’t.”

  “Tell someone.”

  “It’s too . . . ”

  “You won’t tarnish their memory by telling their story.”

  “Why was I the only one to make it out alive, Father?”

  “You can say you should have died with your men. That may be the easy way out.”

  “Are you kidding?”

  “It relieves you of the burden—the responsibility—to carry them with you as you live, Billy. As you live.”

  “My gunners were eighteen years old. My copilot had two kids. My ship was full of wounded. The medic on board was six days from the end of his tour.”

  “How many other helicopters went down that day?”

  “All but one.”

  “All but one.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “Your penance is three Hail Marys, four Our Fathers, and a walk in the woods. Go in peace.”

  Harlow pulls into the drive, slams on the brakes as he turns sharply past the trashcans, sending a spray of gravel onto the back porch. The sound of his arrival is unmistakable, and, Nell realizes, has not been heard in almost two years.

  He’s shouting for Billy before he even reaches the porch: Get your boots, get your jacket; get your ass in gear.

  Nell meets him at the back door, embarrassed, shy beyond reason, aching to know how to interpret his actions and non-actions alike. Harlow checks his speed to avoid knocking her over, and then the room is filled with Marion hugging him, Jack shaking his hand, Billy pulling on a sweatshirt. Nell tries to fade into the background but Harlow pulls her into a bear hug, squeezing the breath out of her, whispering in her ear: I like a girl who can’t hide her feelings. She tries to keep her head down while also trying to gauge whether he’s teasing or serious.

  Billy catches Harlow’s eye, raises an eyebrow. “She’s a little young.”

  “Shut up!” Nell snaps.

  Harlow takes her chin in his hand, tilts her face up. “I heard you got into Cornell.” He kisses her on both cheeks. “Congratulations.”

  She manages to choke out a thank you.

  “You want to come with us?” Harlow asks.

  “No, she doesn’t,” Billy says.

  “Where are you going?” Nell asks.

  “Surprise. You’ll like it,” Harlow says.

  She looks at her brother. He shrugs.

  Flanagan whines to come along. Billy pushes her back inside.

  They drive through town and head south down East Lake Road. Nell is squashed between them, not complaining, as they pass a flask back and forth in front of her. Harlow swings onto Searsburg Road, which runs over the high escarpment between Seneca and Cayuga lakes. They pass a few hunting camps, little tin-roofed shacks made of doors and other castoffs, but no real houses.

  Before the war she had tagged along with Billy and Harlow when they went tracking. She could be trusted to be quiet, not be a nuisance, and keep up. She learned how a trapper had to notice things: the nearly invisible paths pressed into fallen leaves, scratches on trees, turned-up earth, scat. She became increasingly aware that the knowledge Harlow and Billy shared, something between informed observation and instinct, was a rare thing, a remnant of an older world.

  When the road becomes dirt, Harlow flips off the headlamps and makes his way slowly using his running lights. Finds the turnoff and carefully eases the truck through a narrow gap that opens up to a meadow bordered by white pines. Kills the engine, reaches out the window, connects two wires. He’s rigged an infrared light on the roof of the cab so they can see what animals are out at night.

  They sit in the dark, waiting. Nell hears the mewing whistle of a female snowy owl, turns to see if Billy heard it too. He is listening intently, staring into the dark, but not hearing. Impossible, she tells herself, alarmed. When the owl whistles again, much closer this time, he looks at her and smiles.

  They don’t have to wait long.

  The colors reflecting back from the mirrorlike eyes in the dark allow them to identify the animals even before their bodies emerge into the halo of light. Deer: green. Raccoons: orange. Fox: red.

  They never see the animals they came for, though they watch and wait for more than an hour. The night is rich with the scent of pine. Stars glitter overhead in the cold, clear air. The full April moon known as the Wildcat has not yet risen.

  Harlow and Billy have always been fascinated by coyotes and wolves as if they, too, know what it means to be an opportunist, to live on anything; to be subtle enough to disappear. Nell finds herself wondering whether Harlow had been a tracker in Vietnam, whether it had saved his life, the lives of his squad, if she will ever be able to ask him about it.

  When Harlow disconnects the light and flips on his headlamps they see a gray wolf skirting the edge of the clearing. It disappears into the pines.

  “Well, I’ll be damned,” Harlow says, turning on the heater. “When I think of all the hours we’ve spent tracking them . . . ”

  Nell listens as Billy and Harlow talk around her on the drive home, as though the dark makes her invisible. They are relaxed and profane and funny. When Harlow puts his arm around her she’s shocked. She sits straighter, imagining Billy’s response, and then decides so what, who cares; she can lean into him.

  The smell of him. The rise and fall of his chest. The way she fits under his arm. What is she supposed to do with her hands? His leg is taut alongside hers, shifting to brake or accelerate. The rumble of the motor vibrating through the floorboards; like the left hand playing the rhythm while her body plays the melody.

  If Billy weren’t here . . . Well, it isn’t likely Harlow would have rigged this up for her alone. But if he had . . . She indulges this line of thinking, wishing, perhaps for the first time in her life, to be free of her brother. He has always been free of her: the age difference, the freedoms all boys have. She has never felt free of him, even in his absence.

  He casts a long shadow. Maybe it’s time to move outside of it.

  She dares to rest her hand on Harlow’s thigh. Muscle, heat, the rough cotton of his jeans. Suddenly there are questions she’d give anything to ask Megan. There’s no one else to ask. Not her mother, or her sisters, or Billy, God forbid.

  Harlow puts both hands on the wheel when they get to East Lake Road and its streetlights. Nell looks at him, looks down at her hands, thinks of how he’d pulled her up into the apple tree beside him so many years ago.

  No one understands children and their desires. No one.

  On Tuesday, after working at the grocery, Nell is surprised to find Detective Johnson and Dale Pope sitting in the living room. Marion, concerned they’ll upset Nell again, has already given them a piece of her mind.

  “Again? We don’t ha
ve enough to deal with, gentlemen?”

  Nell sits down across from the detective. Dale Pope stands by the door, his arms crossed over his expanding girth.

  Johnson consults his notes. He has very fine fingers, she notices, tobacco-stained.

  “Janet Sims told us she overheard an argument between you and Megan the day before she disappeared. What were you fighting about?”

  “Her boyfriend.”

  “Rob Chandler?”

  “You haven’t found another one, have you?”

  He returns to his notes, waits.

  “She’d dropped her old friends to be with her new friends.”

  “Meaning you.”

  “I missed her, I guess. I didn’t like what I was seeing . . . ”

  “Which was . . . ?”

  “Megan couldn’t, or wouldn’t, stand up to Rob. It almost seemed as if she liked how controlling he was.”

  “Controlling how?”

  “He told her who she could be friends with. Where she could go. What she should wear. She thought it was romantic. I thought it was creepy.”

  “Had there been problems between the two of you before this?”

  “We weren’t as close as we used to be.”

  “And the reason for that?”

  “Where’s Rob Chandler now?” Nell asks. “I haven’t seen him in a few days.”

  “You’d have to ask his family.”

  “Why don’t you ask me about how he threatened me at school after you questioned me the first time? Or the time he stopped to offer me a ride home, but there were three other guys with him, and it wasn’t really an invitation, more like if I was ever dumb enough to get into that car . . . ”

  “What do you mean?”

  “Rob Chandler never said more than five words to me in four years of high school. And suddenly he’s at my locker, suddenly he knows where I live and he’s on my street when I’m walking home . . . It doesn’t make any sense.”

  “He’s been cleared as a suspect.”

  “What?” Nell asks, unable to keep the shock out of her voice.

  “He’s a seventeen-year-old kid,” Johnson says.

  “With a rich father and . . . ” Marion adds from the doorway.